


Jackie and Wilson

by Infamous_society



Series: Wasteland, Baby [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gandalf Ships It, Gen, Gondor, Happy Ending, Inspired by a Hozier Song, M/M, Middle Earth, Minas Tirith, Rohan, Song: Jackie and Wilson (Hozier), lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:33:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28535946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infamous_society/pseuds/Infamous_society
Summary: Aragorn sometimes gets ahead of himselfA journey through Middle Earth alongside its characters accompanied by Hozier songs.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Original Female Character(s), Aragorn | Estel/Original Male Character(s), Aragorn | Estel/Reader
Series: Wasteland, Baby [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090121
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Jackie and Wilson

**Author's Note:**

> Aragorn’s character in this is a mix of book and film Aragorn.
> 
> Jackie and Wilson by Hozier

**_Dream_ ** _\- (noun) 1. a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep._

_2\. a cherished aspiration, ambition, or ideal._

You had met in the wilderness, you had both been wandering with purposes unbeknownst to each other. Both exhausted with tired eyes and dirty clothes, muscles exhausted from days of riding endlessly. You were looking for a place to rest safely for the night when you heard hoofbeats drawing close. A man with a cloak pulled tightly around his body dressed like a ranger from the North. A Dúnedain no doubt. You drew your horse to a halt, murmuring soft words of reassurance under your breath.

Your hand went to your sword, “Who are you.”

The man drew back his hood and smiled slightly. His eyes were piercing, a blue that seemed to shine even in the dim of sunset, dark hair that was matted in mud but somehow still managed to frame his face, extenuated by his cheekbones. He spoke softly, “Strider, I am a ranger of the North.” 

Your eyes narrowed. He rode too well to be just a ranger of the north. You were too well travelled to believe his riding position came from growing up in a ranger village - they rode slightly slouched, hands flat, as if the wind was chasing them. He carried himself with pride, his head high but not in a mocking manner. He had a different air around him.   
  
“I will ask you once again, who are you?” You scowled, voice stern. The man - Strider - laughed lightly, almost admiring and surprised.  
  
He shrugged slightly, barely enough to be noticed, and raised his hands, “I am Strider as I said.” 

You growled, dismounting your horse, “Your riding position is too good to be a ranger. Who are you?”

A peaceful smile crossed his face, eyes flitting down to where you now stood, “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn and I am looking for a place to sleep for the night.”

  
Aragorn watched the fire intently as you checked on the horses. Visions of you landing gracefully, confidently approaching him ran through his mind. The night’s cold was biting, red clouds finally disappearing out of sight. He sighed, the weather in the morning would be dreadful. Occasions like this made him miss the warmth of Rivendell, yet as you sat down next to him he couldn’t help but feel as if part of its beauty and warmth was here with him.   
  
“Lembas?” You offered him. You had stayed in Lorien briefly, well known amongst the elves there. He didn’t answer, just stared into the flames. 

“Lembas?” You nudged him and he jolted suddenly as if he was coming out of a trance. Normally it was difficult to catch a ranger off his guard. A laugh escaped your lips.

He smiled warmly at you, “I didn’t expect to find lembas bread this far away from Rivendell.”   
  
You hummed slightly as you handed him a piece, “Rivendell?”

He was intriguing, a man wandering across Arda, a man who was evidently close to the elves of Rivendell - perhaps that explained the way he carried himself. Headstrong yet cautious, humorous yet stern, majestic. 

“I grew up there,” he shrugged slightly, inching closer towards you. 

“Yet you say you’re a ranger from the North?” 

“My father was from the North, I grew up in Rivendell and then rejoined my kin.” 

You hummed once again, moving close to Aragorn and the fire. The night was going to be freezing, you could already feel it’s icy tendrils wrapping around your hands and face. You shivered.   
  


The flames seemed to fade away into something else in Aragorn’s eyes. Warmth no longer seemed to radiate from the fire but instead he felt the heat of your proximity. Your laugh and your touch consumed his thoughts. He felt like he had met you in a past life, a thousand dreams ago perhaps. Shadow on your face, moonlight on your hair. Ethereal.

The night grew darker and crueler. Light conversation flickered through the air; your favourite place, his favourite food, which weapon was the best. You yawned slightly, days without proper rest finally taking hold of your body. 

He grinned, “I hope I’m not boring you.” 

“I am weary, that is all,” you shrugged moving towards the fire, putting it out.

The layers of blankets you had wrapped around yourself did not seem to keep the cold from attacking you, but a fire in the night was potentially dangerous. You sighed and curled up tighter in an effort to preserve a small part of your warmth.   
  


Aragorn felt elated, you could match his wit, make him smile, but you could hold your own. Perfectly suited for him. He turned to look at you, catching a shiver that ran the length of your body. He moved closer, closer, closer until he lay next to you. The world fell silent.

A thousand dreams ago. 

Your hair sprawled around your head like a crown. He allowed himself to smile, you and him both wearing crowns - surely it was destiny. The walls of Minas Tirith gleamed brightly in the moonlight, flowers in bloom along the city walls. Your laugh echoed through the streets as you took his hand, starlight catching in his eyes. 

“Are you drunk my king?”

He just laughed as he spun you around, arms tight around your waist as he dipped you, before quickly linking your arm through his and spinning you once again. 

“My king, we are not at in an inn in Rohan we are in front of your kingdom.” 

He carried on dancing as if he hadn’t heard you, despite the mischievous look that crept across his features. He slowed. Your arm smoothed his hair, fingers catching in some knots. Gracefully you sat, the moonlight flashing off your dagger hilt. Aragorn couldn’t help but smile - a traveller’s habits never left. Beckoning him to sit, his body was pressed flush against yours, back to chest. Your fingers continued to run through his hair. His muscles relaxed as he slouched, hardened from days of riding and fighting. Calloused fingers clasped your other hand, your crowns laying off to one side. 

“I am not drunk, merely giddy to be here with you, my love.” 

A giggle escaped your lips as he turned round to face you, “as I said my king, if you wish to act in such a manner I suggest we ride to Rohan and act as if we are just two rangers again.” 

He let out a bemused sigh, his hair falling around his face whilst his eyes stared intently into yours. You leaned forward, closing the slight gap between you. The Gondor night seemed to smile.   
  


Jolting, he woke. A twig snapped under his foot. Pressing his hands to his lips he realised they felt warm, his body felt warm. You were not there. He grimaced, was that only a dream? He looked upwards in time to see you swinging yourself into your saddle and gathering up your reins. 

You smiled gracefully at him, a slight blush across your cheeks. His hair was slightly messy, eyes bright but dimmed with sleep, muscles tensed and alert. A work of art. Yet you had to reach your destination on time. Your horse shifted impatiently as you fastened your bow to your back. 

Your voice rang through his head, “Aragorn, I hope with all my heart that we shall meet each other again.” 

You nudged your horse forward. Aragorn watched as you disappeared, the frost melting as the rain began to fall.   
  


The battle against Sauron was long and tiresome. A few years had passed since he met you on that cold, fateful night and he had not seen you since. Perhaps you had fallen on the battlefield, he had seen your courageous, foolish tendency firsthand. Perhaps you had settled down elsewhere, in another land. He was unsure. Legolas did not know of you, the Rohirrim did not utter a word, Gandalf had merely smiled. But your face, half framed in shadow, shining in the firelight, cold nipping your features had remained in his mind.   
  


But his crown right had been granted. The sun caught the walls of Minas Tirith - rays of gold shining across the kingdom, the tree blossoming in the courtyard. This was where he had danced with you, was it not? He blinked again, staring at Gandalf in a triumphant bewilderment before turning around to look across his people - his kingdom. The crown felt cool against his skin. Éomer, Legolas, Gimli, Faramir - yet you were not there. The hobbits stood in awe as he knelt before them. Pippin walked forwards, almost apprehensive, towards Aragorn. 

“Aragorn, I have someone you might want to meet,” his grin seemed contagious, mischievous and scheming as always. 

The crowd of people parted. His heart dropped. You walked towards him, steadily and surely. 

“Strider,” you nodded your head as a sign of respect, “Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Heir of Isildur.”

You looked at him - his hair was no longer dirty and his eyes caught the bright light of day. The crown only accentuated his features. You laughed quietly.   
  
His gaze was inquisitive, longing, happy. 

“My king.”

He took your hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I can write happy endings occasionally!
> 
> I thought dream was a nice word to use as both definitions apply to this story!


End file.
